


The Perpetual Tic of a Clock

by MermaidFangs (orphan_account), TheRatava (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3527612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MermaidFangs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheRatava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was something wrong with your body, and you were determined to figure it out.</p><p>In which a young Dave Strider finally discovers that he's not the only one with something under his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perpetual Tic of a Clock

**Author's Note:**

> this is bad and a vent fic and id appreciate it if you read it! yall are great and supportive when it comes to vent fics ty

It started when you were seven.

It was on a weekend, you remember that much because Bro had left the night before and hadn't come back until around lunch time. He taught you how to make mac and cheese when you were four. There was some left over when he trudged into the apartment building after another long night of djing at some crappy club that you think got shut down a few years ago. He devoured the lukewarm Strider Style mac and cheese in less than a minute, before collapsing in the couch.

Maybe you were sitting at the kitchen table doing homework, or maybe you were kicking Bowser's sorry ass, but you coughed.

And then you coughed again.

And again.

Your cough was rhythmic, but it had no pattern to it. A throaty, dry cough that was almost like you were clearing your throat over and over again, as if there was something stuck in there. There wasn't, but to this day it stills feels like somethings blocking your esophagus.

After some time, Bro spoke up in a groggy, broken voice, "Little dude, are you sick or some shit?"

You shook your head, and muttered an apology. After that you tried to fight the urge to cough, but it lasted a good thirty seconds. You excused yourself to your room, free to cough the uncomfortable feeling out of your lungs every time it came back, which was always.

Other habits started up, but the two that have stuck with you since your pre - teenage years were sniffing and clawing at the inside of your wrists.

There was _something_ under your skin, you just knew it. It just _felt_  like something was under your skin, and you'd gnaw at your wrists and scratch at them with your blunt nails. Sometimes you broke skin, those were not good days, because you had to fight the urge to dig into your wrists. It was a gross thought.

One day when you were fourteen, Bro noticed the scars littering the skin where your wrist met your palm, and 'hid' anything relatively sharp in the house. Hid, meaning he stuffed all the shit under his bed, which was practically a death wish to touch. One rule, don't go in Bro's room. You haven't since you were six. It was the last time he comforted you when you had a nightmare, the last time you let yourself cry over a nightmare.

You noticed what he had done when three full days passed without a strife or even an attempt at a strife. You've been using spoons for mac and cheese, and that shit ain't classy.

One day, you took count of all your little habits, and tried remembering how long you've had them. A total of eight, and one of them was recently new, cracking and rolling your neck. It hurt to all hell and you were scared you were gonna break your neck one day. Sometimes it's hard to sleep because of the pain, and even through all the pain you still have the urge to just.. maybe you could just.. slide your head to the right really quickly.. arch your neck and roll it a bit..

Dammit. Fuck.

That hurt to all hell, fuck.

The cracking sound was satisfying, but it wasn't enough.

Nothing was ever enough.

One day, you caved and hopped onto your computer the moment you woke up, around three in the afternoon. It was summer and you stayed up until five every night, but you were taking online classes during the school year so it didn't even matter what time you went to bed. Taking classes on your own schedule royally fucked up your schedule. You opened up your search engine and began typing.

_Need to do something over and over again._

The first result was an article about Tourettes, which you skipped over. You knew you didn't have that because those habits were more spasms, and you could manage to hold yourself still for a bit until the urge to relieve yourself overwhelmed you.

The result under it caught your eye.

_Chronic Motor Tic Disorder_

You clicked it without a second thought.

 _'Chronic motor tic disorder is a condition that involves either brief, uncontrollable, spasm-like movements or vocal outbursts but not both.'_ Holy fuck.

 _'Between one and two percent of the population have this disorder. It is not curable.'_ Holy **fuck**!

You're not alone. Holy shit. You're not the only one like this! Sure, there isn't a cure, but it's _actually a fucking thing_!

You kept reading, eating up the words like your life depended on it.

Later, you told Bro, and he didn't really say anything. He probably knew all alone. He probably was up and researching that shit the day your first habit- tic had developed. You feel like you made him proud, finding out what was up with yourself. Because the first time you had complained about it, a few years ago, he told you it was your personal mission to figure out just exactly what was up with the radical and odd Strider bod of yours.

Okay, he didn't say that word for word, you're paraphrasing.

But the day you told him, he took you out for pizza. The first time in months. He acted like the two things weren't related, but you knew better than that.

He even pretended that he didn't notice anything when you coughed. And coughed. And sniffed. All that jazz.

It made you smile, for some reason.


End file.
